


Falling

by snofeey



Series: Crashing Down [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Garrison backstory, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shiro/Keith - Freeform, let's just jump off a cliff with the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7383238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snofeey/pseuds/snofeey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the team on Kerberos disappeared into the stars, Keith felt his world drop out from under him. Shiro felt reality disintegrate around him, to be replaced by a cold new world. When a stolen Galra ship crash landed on Earth and a mismatched group found a giant blue lion, both Keith and Shiro thought they could pick themselves back up. Stopping a fall is a lot harder than it looks though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keith

**Author's Note:**

> So this came out after watching the new Voltron series and freaking out about the cliff everyone got thrown over at the end... Was going to be just Keith and a whole lot shorter, but things kept going. Enjoy!

_I’ve been assigned_ , he remembered Shiro saying, quiet and eyes distant, _To the Kerberos mission._

_Far away,_ he had replied, trying to keep the wrench in his gut from showing. He should have known better, he knew now, for Shiro had laughed and bumped his shoulder.

_I’ll be back Keith, it’s just a routine run._

Not anymore though, the clinical report on the view-screen sneered. His roommates shook their heads, scared that ‘pilot error’ could happen to someone as experienced as Shiro, who had been one of the best pilots Garrison ever produced. _You’ll beat my record soon,_ Shiro had teased once. _Slow down, will you?_ That had been a while now, it seemed; Keith had passed that mark long since.

“He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he Keith?”

_Was?_ “Is,” he snapped, grabbing his jacket and heading out the door. It sat heavy over his uniform, too warm in the early summer air, but he didn’t care. The achingly familiar chill of loss had set in, and he needed the comfort of the old jacket.

The talk in the halls and classrooms for the next week dissected the mission and what might have happened. Takashi Shiro, who had for so long stood as the example for all cadets in the fighter pilot class, suddenly offered proof for never taking things for granted, a puzzle to be pondered as everyone asked _where did he go wrong_?  Already a quiet student, Keith retreated into sullen, defensive silence, hating himself for being unable to find the words to defend his friend.

Experience told him life held few sureties. A ‘piloting error’ could have happened. But it _didn’t_. He couldn’t say how he knew it, but he did. Too little sat right with Garrison’s explanation.

Life at Garrison moved on, fast, from the alleged demise of its talented son. Gossip turned towards the Fall Ball (he wouldn’t be attending) and the final tests before the junior cadets progressed to the next level. Everyone forgot Kerberos, and Keith didn’t know which was worse, that Shiro had become the face of ‘what could go wrong in space’ or that everyone had shrugged and moved on.

His silence and shrugs for answers got him disciplined, while his flight scores kept him from being held back, though noises were made on an increasing level that they would not be able to do so for long.

_You are far too talented to let your future go to waste, young man,_ the ponderous, patronizing voice of one instructor had sighed after he spaced for an entire class. _Wake up cadet,_ another had snapped. _I’m not your mother, to hold your hand._ He had almost pointed out that she couldn’t either, but the words turned to ash in his mouth. A sullen nod did instead.

He did _try_ , but with everything else, class just seemed … pointless. Too old to be adopted, the home had pushed him towards Garrison, a place that could ‘straighten him out,’ according to the conversation about his future that he had overheard. It had seemed as good a place as any to him, and once he had learned how to fly, it had been good enough. But now the walls of the sim pressed in, and the hallways had become claustrophobic. Too familiar, full of laughter and figures that he knew couldn’t be Shiro, but made him take a double look nonetheless, renewing the ache that had settled in and ate at him.  He continued to try, muscling his way through class and ignoring the jibes from the other students. At least they had moved him to a weapons class where he didn’t have to continually deal with the loudmouths who thought that ‘quiet and skinny’ equaled ‘easy meat’; he had learned to defend himself, and others, with his fists a long time ago. Martial arts classes, provided by one of his foster-families, had been the first attempt to ‘straighten him out,’ to instill discipline. It had worked, just not in the way anyone else had wanted.

\---

If someone on the disciplinary review on that day not far in the future were to have asked when the break came, he might have told them that it happened when Iversson and two other commanders had passed by him, muttering quietly about Kerberos. Some girl had made a scene about it, accusing them of covering up her father’s disappearance, and they all wanted the matter dealt with quietly and quickly. Keith’s gut had twisted up on itself; if ‘pilot error’ had caused the disappearance of the Kerberos team, then why the hush up?

Things went downhill from there, especially in flight sims, where Iversson held court. He couldn’t help it; he hadn’t respected the man much before (too loud and sure of himself), and now? Now it was all he could do to say ‘yes sir, no sir’ when Iversson spoke. His salutes were short and sloppy. The commander noticed, and Keith’s flight scores started slipping, marked down for ‘insubordination.’ The noisy cadet with the obnoxious stories—Lance—started creeping up on Keith, and crowed about it. Keith hadn’t cared (he could fly _circles_ around Lance in his sleep, after all), but having to listen to the bragging? He stopped eating in the common mess, and his already bad reputation for being antisocial went up several notches. Whispers followed him in the hallways, forcing his shoulders to hunch and his mouth to set in a tight line. His roommates tried to help, but really they could only do so much.

He retreated into his books, and the gym. Flying sims solo would have been an option, but his insubordinate behaviour had him off the list of those allowed to do so. Easier to mark the student down than to ask why and wait for the answer to come, painfully slow and halting. Or maybe they just didn’t have time; too much to do, too many students. Not that he wanted to talk to them anyways.

\---

The desert on the edge of which Garrison sat stretched far, full of gullies and wind-carved rock. A few weeks before the incident on Kerberos, Keith’s year had a survival class out among the sands. Some of the kids spent the nights huddled in their tents, cold and scared of what might be out there. He reveled in the openness of the wide sky, pale blue against the burnt rocks. Here the winds called, free from the constraining walls of Garrison which blocked their force and directed what little made it through. The heat of the sand crept through the soles of his boots, connecting him to the sun above and the ground below. Here he felt grounded, free, and connected in a way he never did in the sterile walls with their army green corridors, filled with the white noise of dozens of voices, always talking, never saying anything.

He had accompanied Shiro once on a supply run to the station 100 miles across the desert. Shiro had winked halfway across and let him take the controls, talking him through the differences between a real ship and the sim. For the first time in a long time, Keith had felt free. That flight remained with him, buried somewhere deep inside, where no one else could find it.

\---

Keith sat staring out over the sand, legs dangling over the edge of the building. Technically, he should be in flight sims. But he knew that he was slipping slowly towards being kicked out, and he couldn’t stop the forces he had already set in motion. Iversson, the other instructors, and the cadets had greased the slide, but the failure was his. _Time to take ownership of it,_ he thought, neither sad nor happy. _Just like pulling a band-aid off…_ Not really disappointed either, just tired. Tired of fighting everyone, of trying to fit in. Flying sims mired him further in the mess, and weapons class was just one more chore now. His impatience and stubborn streak won him few friends, and the spiral he found himself on was losing him the few he had left.

He closed his eyes as a memory sliced through, fighting to keep his face still.

_You can do this Keith,_ Shiro had said the night of his departure. _Just remember to focus._

Focus… that’s where he had gone wrong. He had focused on the wrong thing, trying to make do in a system that had revealed its callousness. Shiro had given _everything_ for Garrison, and when he needed them, where were they?

The voices of the past flooded over him with the winds out of the desert, and he suddenly felt the overwhelming need to be _somewhere else_. He needed to be in the air, cutting the wind, spiraling down even. If he was going to go out, it would be with an explosion, not a fizzle; he would make them remember him in a way they refused to for Shiro. He knew that the hangers were busy, and a cadet that looked like he had been sent on an errand could get through without anyone caring. Until, that is, he had the jet up and running, blasting through the open door as the techs shouted and waved their arms.

“Attention cadet,” the tinny, angry voice of the man at the com came in, “Return to base at once! This is a dir—” He cut the man off, muting the noise as he relaxed in the silence of the cockpit. Only the thrum of the engines and his own breathing. Grinning suddenly in the heady feeling of freedom, he flicked his fingers over the controls, sending the jet shooting forward over the desert. He swerved around the spires of rock, feeling the hum of the wind and its pull on the wings. The plane danced in his hands, and those watching its flight in Garrison’s command room sighed, muttering about how it was a  damn shame they had to expel him now. How he could have been _such a good_ pilot, if he only had some discipline.

Eventually, the jets Garrison had sent after him caught up. He led them on a chase through the clouds—rain was coming—before nosing down, skimming along the sands. The desert here, in the dimming light, shimmered in shades of red: deep red, burnt, the colour of dried blood, spread immeasurably far. The sands stretched out, a dark stain in the sunset that reached out to where the sun melted into a hot pool of orange umber. A gust of wind over a gully sent him spiraling up, up, up as he aimed the nose of the jet to reach as high as it could go. The others halted their chase, circling nervously as they waited for the inevitable disintegration of structural integrity. At the last moment, he flipped the jet, looping down as the engines protested, wings threatened to snap. But never did. Instead the jet nosed down, trading the slow groan of the descent for a plummet to the ground. The com, still silent, couldn’t transmit the shouts to ‘pull up, dammit, pull up!’ Someone in Garrison’s command groaned and demanded which goddamn head shrink had missed the fact that they had a suicidal cadet on base.

The jet couldn’t take another hard turn, and so Keith slowed the descent into an easy glide back to the hanger, Garrison pilots in tow. He couldn’t hear the sighs of relief from those who tailed him, or the curses they exchanged with one another over his behaviour. He couldn’t hear Iversson’s booming voice calling for the paperwork to expel him.

The adrenaline rush stayed with him all day, helped him stand straight, look his commanders in the eyes as he had been unable to do so for months now.

“Why’d you do it?” Kyle had asked surreptitiously as Keith waited to be hauled before the inquisition. He shrugged. So many reasons, and Kyle—farm boy, honest, and trusting—would understand none of them. If he had, maybe Keith would have told him. He took the jet because he needed to fly, to get as far from these suffocating walls as fast as possible. He reached for the point of dissolution because he needed to remember something important.

Experience told him that in the end, you could really only count on yourself.

As he waited, a tall man with short dark hair passed and Keith caught him out of the corner of his eye. His head jerked, and the ache deep within hardened; not who he thought.

\---

They never asked him why he took the jet, until the very end. Questions more along the lines of ‘do you understand the ramifications of your behaviour?’ and plenty of ‘how’s’ attacked him. He shrugged and mumbled answers to the latter; when he told them ‘yes’ for the former, they didn’t believe him. They saw a sullen teenager who had never learned to respect authority and who never would. They saw another ‘piloting error’ news story flashing across screens, and they moved to stop _that_ story before it could happen. When they finally asked him why, he didn’t even bother answering. Why waste words that no one would try to hear?

“What a loss,” Iversson rumbled as  the disciplinary review concluded. “You could have been the next Takashi Shirogane, had you been able to focus your energies properly.”

He clenched his fists, eyes narrowing and mouth setting in anger. Thoughts about _what, abandoned_? and _apologies for not giving you_ another _story to cover up_ , but he couldn’t form the words. Instead, all that came out was a firm, “Fuck you, _sir_.” Maybe not the best comeback, but it summed just about everything up. (He never knew, but in the days that followed, his rejoinder became legendary among Garrison’s students; no one, they would assert, could turn an honorific into a pejorative quite like Keith could. The staff agreed and ordered everyone not to try replicating the feat.)

One of the sub-commanders rushed him out of the room as Iversson’s face reddened in fury, to get his things, sign the papers saying that he understood what had happened and why, and then a short ride to the bus stop in the small town thirty minutes outside of Garrison’s gate. The sub-commander handed a crumpled sixty bucks to him, “for the bus ticket, best to get out fast kid after _that_ rejoinder,” and then turned back to base, his duty discharged.

Leaving a skinny teenager on a dusty street, waiting for a bus to who knows the hell where.

Keith leaned against the shadowed wall of the bus station’s west side. The sun’s heat radiated from the pavement and the rough adobo bricks against his back. Closing his eyes, he dozed, relaxed now that he was free.

“Hey kid,” The call woke him some time later, and he looked over at the woman in the doorway across the street. “Bus don’t come until tomorrow. Schedule changed.” She raised an eyebrow as he only sighed and nodded. Figured.

“You any good in the kitchen?” She asked after a moment, still studying him.

He stared at her and shrugged. “I can wash dishes and chop things.”

“Good enough. My daughter’s off sick, and I’m short-handed. You work today, two meals and a bed, breakfast tomorrow before the bus; work for you?” Nodding silently, he picked up his bag and crossed the street. It sounded fair, more than fair, in fact.

The bus came the next morning, and Garrison’s command breathed a sigh of relief. One ticking time bomb off their hands.  A few weeks later, the lists came out, and a loud cadet shouted in joy, pumping his fist. A new cadet joined the ranks of Garrison’s finest, using papers no one noticed were forged until months later, when it no longer mattered.

\---

Only thing … he had never gotten on that bus. He worked for Sheila for a week or so, kipping in the small ‘guest room’ that had masqueraded as a storage closet for years, then set out into the desert, camping out in an old house she thought was still standing and then, when no one came to claim it, took it over, made it his. Something kept him from leaving the desert, and while he couldn’t explain it, he trusted the feeling in his gut that told him to stay. Close enough to happy, he relaxed out in the desert. Sheila’s daughter Tess gave him his first beer the day he turned 18, laughed when he choked on his first attempt to smoke a cigarette. Alone in the desert, he didn’t need to worry about ghosts from the past hiding in the crowd.

He ran into Lance in town one day, when he was getting Jerry to check out his bullet. Lance had fighter pilot cadet colours on, and Keith, unexpectedly, felt the hot bite of envy. He shoved it down, focusing on the bullet and Jerry’s explanations on how to fix the clogged filters for the next time this should happen (it was the desert; dust constantly got into everything). When he left though, Lance saw him and ran over.

“You still hanging around? Jealous?” Keith just rolled his eyes and kicked the bullet into gear, shooting off as Lance started to challenge him to a race. As if.

The ride back out did little to calm his annoyance at his former classmate. Lance was everything he was not, which was fine, but he had the infuriating tendency of assuming that a) everyone was his friend and b) everyone would naturally follow his lead. He also tended to travel in packs. Keith kept to himself and had for a long time; more than one or two people, and he clammed up and looked for an exit. Which Lance took to mean that _he_ was intimidated by _Lance_ , of all people.

The bullet skimmed, fast, over the sand, faster than Keith had pushed it before, but not to the point where it started shaking and threatening to lose its structural integrity. Lost in his thoughts and annoyance at seeing Lance, Keith flew on instinct, feeling the wind against his face, tugging his hair, and hugging the curves of carved desert stone. Only when the controls dinged erratically, indicating an error, did he come out and look around him.

That was the day he first found the carved lions, and he knew that he had found the reason why he hadn’t left. Months later, he would wonder if he should thank Lance for that, but decided that Lance’s head was big enough as it was.

\---

He spent weeks mapping the area, studying the lions. They called to him in some strange way, but as if they were speaking a language Keith couldn’t understand. So he hunted them out, marking points on a board and taking pictures of the region, trying to understand their meaning. He took jobs only as he needed them, reducing his food stocks to flight rations—dry and tasteless, but nutrient rich, quick to eat, and cheap. As time passed, he started staying out later and later, driven by something he couldn’t explain but it _felt important._ And so he continued.

Iversson had accused him of lacking focus; he failed to appreciate that Keith had plenty of focus when he chose to apply it. His roommates could have told the commander that, if he had bothered to ask. They had ribbed Keith about his late hours, studying flight manuals and schematics. It wasn’t just dumb talent that had propelled him to the front of the class, that let him cut through the wind; he had the technical knowledge to support his instincts. He had been able to be moved to a different weapons class because of his focus, which propelled him well above his gregarious classmates. Keith had had hardly any social life to speak of in Garrison (and even less now, in the desert), not that he cared, nor would he admit that on some nights, maybe, he did, if that old ache inside his chest meant anything.

Out studying a lion carving he had just found, Keith almost missed the bright meteoric light streaking across the sky. It landed close to Garrison, and as he stared at the after burn colouring the night sky, his mouth went dry. Checking that he still had the charges he had brought in case he needed to clear rock, he turned the bullet towards the dimming light from the crash. His stomach clenched, he tried not to think about who he hoped had been on that ship. Crouched low over the bullet, he remembered the feel of that stolen flight, the way he  reached for the sky, the stars, and how on the sharp descent he could see the red ground hurtling ever closer, felt the metal straining in between the forces of gravity and the strong desert winds. They never asked him why he risked death in two short moments, one after the other before veering away, but even if they had, he wouldn’t have told them. He kept his secrets close; his memories were his own.

_“You can do this Keith,” Shiro smiled, “Just remember to focus.”_

_He tried to smile back in return, barely managing it, and mumbled something in response. They stood side by side, looking out over the desert. Shiro stared at the stars, mind on his upcoming departure; Keith stared determinedly out at the rocks. After a while he shifted, leaning his arm against Shiro’s, suddenly needing the reassurance of the contact. Moving his arm so that he could clasp Keith’s hand, fingers intertwining, Shiro looked down and smiled softly._

_“I’ll be back Keith, I promise,” he whispered, squeezing Keith’s hand in his. Keith rested his head against Shiro’s shoulder._

_“I know,” he said after a moment. “And I’ll be here when you get back.”_

\---

Things moved too fast once he found Shiro strapped to the gurney in the incident perimeter Garrison had set up around the crash site; he constantly felt off balance, and lashed out accordingly, particularly at Lance. And what was with the terrible trio, everywhere at once and always talking? Too many people at once for his months of near isolation. He watched Shiro, worried but unsure of what to say, how to turn the uneasy feeling he got when he saw the mask Shiro wore slip into words. Something had happened to him out there in the stars, but he didn’t remember part and wouldn’t talk about the rest, and Keith didn’t know what to do, uneasy with the feeling of _disappeared_ lingering despite Shiro’s return.

When Shiro and Pidge left to find the Green Lion and Hunk with Lance to find Yellow, he was left with the Princess. She looked over to where he stood, staring at the immense view screens, once the two sets had exited their assigned worm hole.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she commented. “Is everything alright?”

“I don’t talk as much as most,” he said shortly, trying not to sound rude. Being left behind always played havoc on his nerves.

She nodded, regarding him steadily. “Lance called you a dropout,” she asked after a few moments. “What’s that?”

He winced, both at the term and her apparent desire to find out his life story. “I was kicked out of Garrison; I didn’t drop out.” At her raised eyebrow and expectant look, he sighed and continued. “For failing to respect the authority of my commanders. And for stealing a plane.” The tone of his voice must have told her all she needed to know, for her mouth quirked as Coran chuckled. And that was it.

They had lied to his face, that was why, he might have said if she had asked.

_What happened on Kerberos_? he had asked his flight instructor the day after the news broke. Her face had set in a funny line, uncomfortable with the question. _Pilot error, as I think they reported,_ she answered, refusing to look Keith in the eye. _Thought I had trained him better than that, but it can happen to all of us, I suppose._ Keith stopped asking questions in class after that; why invite more lies? (He was gone by then, but she stepped down at the end of that year, uncomfortable with the orders she was given. She had seen Keith spiraling downwards and had an idea why, but in the conflict between duty to Garrison and her student, the former won, and she never forgave herself for it. ‘Stress’ was the official reason on her notice of resignation.)

_Any questions kid?_ The sub-commander had asked as he drove Keith out to the bus depot. _Just one,_ Keith had said after a moment, going for broke, _What really happened on Kerberos?_ The sub-commander hadn’t even blinked; _What we said—pilot error. Shame really, but nothing more than that._

They had accused him of lacking respect; he could have told them that he had learned from the best.

\---

In the Galra ship, he wanted to punch Shiro when he agreed to go with Pidge to check out the prison cells. (Later, when he thought about what Pidge had said, he frowned in confusion. Lance had introduced him as ‘Pidge Gunderson’, but the commander’s—Pidge’s father apparently—last name was Holt.)

“You can do this, Keith,” Shiro said softly, serious, in an echo of a year and a bit before. “Just remember to focus.” He gripped Keith’s shoulder as Pidge turned to look nervously down the hallway, looking him in the eye. Keith nodded, swallowing his fear, and turned to find the Red Lion.

Shiro was right. After all, he had figured out how to right himself after his world had upturned on his own, twice now; how hard could finding a metal lion be? Besides, it wasn’t like he wouldn’t see Shiro once it was all done. He turned away from that thought as soon as it came, trying to focus on the unfamiliar-yet-familiar feeling that would lead him to the Red Lion.

The Princess never asked how he had earned the Red Lion’s respect, she just looked relieved that he had. The Lion seemed annoyed at her lack of trust, but it may have just been him reading his own annoyance into the Lion. He had _not_ been impressed by that bit of ‘team-building’ activity she had forced on them.  A good part of that, if he was being fair though, was Lance’s fault.

Shiro did ask, though, one night when they finally had a moment of quiet and everyone else was asleep.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “The Galra soldiers attacked, and I was too busy fighting them to really worry about it. And then I hit the hatch and was too busy holding on.”

“You opened the hatch?” Shiro’s voice was strained. Keith hunched against the wall and shrugged. “They weren’t getting Red.” _Not on your life_ , he had thought at the time. He decided not to mention that he had fallen through the open hatch before Red caught him.

“Keith …” He couldn’t look at Shiro; it had worked out alright, so what was the problem? After a moment he got up and left, feeling sick and unsure and wondering what the hell had happened that he couldn’t talk anymore. _It’s like he measures out his words,_ he had overheard Pidge musing earlier when the Princess commented, again, on his silence, _only so many per day._ Not necessarily, but close enough.

“Keith, wait,” Shiro caught up with him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was …” He sighed. “I don’t like the idea of you taking unnecessary risks. But that was a necessary one, wasn’t it?”

He nodded, not sure what to say or where Shiro was going with this.

“Just be careful, ok? Please?” So many unspoken things lingered behind Shiro’s face, worried and marred by whatever he had experienced the past year. _We’ll talk when I get back_ , Shiro had promised before Kerberos _, figure this out._ But neither of them, it seemed, had any idea of how to even get to that point.

“I will,” Keith promised, “But I will still fight as I think best.”

“You always have,” Shiro smiled weakly. They walked in silence until they reached the corridor whose branch turned them away from one another.

“Shiro,” he said softly as he prepared to turn towards his room. He paused, searching for the words, and Shiro waited him out. “I …” he sighed, giving up. “Good night.”

He banged his head against the door when he got back to his room, safe in its silence and darkness, frustrated about not being able to say what he had wanted to.

His world had fallen out from him when his parents died. It had fallen out again when Shiro disappeared on Kerberos, but ‘disappeared’ has nothing of the finality of ‘dead.’ Sometimes … he wondered if he hadn’t disappeared as well, fading into the sands, burnt into the rocks only to be spread as ash by the desert wind.


	2. Shiro

The trip out to Kerberos had been uneventful, the space around the outer planets calm. Matt had spent most of the trip excitedly going over past reports of the small moon and talking about what they would find. His excitement had been infectious, though when ‘night’ would come and the small ship lay still, Shiro found himself thinking about Earth and what was going on there. _Anyone waiting for you out there?_ Commander Holt had asked once, when he caught Shiro staring out into space (literally and metaphorically). Caught off guard, he had mumbled something, blushing, as the commander chuckled. _Hang on to ‘em,_ he had told Shiro, eyes distant. _It’s hard, leaving the folks we love behind for so long. That’s the price we all pay, for this job._

When the Galra ship captured them, Shiro felt reality disintegrate around him. It was all too new, too much too soon.  Earth hadn’t made contact with sentient alien species yet, and while everyone accepted that there must be some out there somewhere, no one had thought much farther than that. _Terran chauvinism_ , Commander Holt had called it, bleakly, while they sat in a cell, waiting whatever decision would come of their future. The Galra were huge, standing well over a head taller than Shiro, with broad shoulders and purple tinged grey skin. No kindness lingered in them; a warrior race, bent on conquest, they terrified Matt and set Shiro’s nerves on edge.

A decision was made: Commander Holt they deemed too old to be of any amusement, and guards hauled him away from his son and Shiro to be taken to a work colony. Shiro and Matt they lined up for the arena, young and able to provide sport.

It would take him some time to remember after his escape, but that was the last time he saw Matt, when he pushed him to the ground and intentionally injured him. The cut across Matt’s shin wasn’t deep, but Shiro had noticed that with the high number of prisoners, the Galra were more likely to relegate those injured in any form to the work camps rather than the arena. And shin wounds _bleed_ (he wondered later if Galra physiognomy worked a similar way); Matt looked more severely injured than he was.

As he waited for the fight to start, moments away, he felt a cold chill run through him. He was going to die here; how could he not? The Gladiator was huge, a monster who had never been defeated. He held some kind of energy weapon, a scepter that shot out an energy ball. Shiro was given a sort of sword—of good weight, but unfamiliar and little match for the energy weapon the Gladiator held.

A memory from the past whispered through, of Keith mumbling something that tried to sound hopeful and not terrified that one more person would be leaving him, of promises made, and Shiro suddenly ached for home as he hadn’t since the Galra captured them. The homesickness cut through the chill set in by the unfamiliar ship and people, and he buried the memory as far down as he could, standing tall as he entered the arena. Keith had once told him about hiding his memories, protecting them against the wear from questions and other people; Shiro now knew what he meant, though it was a different sort of wear he wanted to protect his from.

Eyes hard, he entered the fight. He _would_ make it home.

\---

The escape, the flight home, it was all a blur, images and strange voices flashing by too fast. He had hit his head, hard, when the ship crashed, and the sharp pain that thudded against his skull gave him a good clue as to why he couldn’t remember hardly anything. Like why his arm was black, made of some sort of metal that moved like flesh. The Galra had done something to it … he just couldn’t remember what, or why.

Garrison’s soldiers found him stumbling around the wreckage, trying to orient himself and refamiliarize himself with Earth’s gravity. Galra ships had a similar gravitational force on their decks, but it was different enough that Shiro felt clumsy and slow. It hadn’t taken much for the soldiers to take him into a tent-like circular structure. _Incident-perimeter_ , his brain supplied, sending off warning signals. Too late though, for before he knew it he was strapped to a cold metal gurney.

He tried to warn them—he did remember the ominous plans for finding ‘Voltron,’ whatever that weapon was, and destroying what was left of the universe—but no one listened. They told him to calm down, their voices patronizing and insincere (someone he had known— _Keith_ —had hated that about a number of the instructors). When they saw his arm, one panicked. The other started talking to Shiro as if he was a lab rat; Shiro fought harder against the restraints. He knew, with _that_ voice, that he wasn’t getting out unscathed (his mind shied away from how he knew that; he just did, his gut told him, clenching in on itself), that he wouldn’t be listened to. And then there was a sharp prick of a needle and his world slowly went dark and body limp as his mind screamed.

Shiro woke up in a strange room, pale dawn light forcing its way through the broken shutters. He smelled dust and the cold, clear air of the desert dawn. Recognizing that he was away from Garrison and the incident perimeter, he tensed, hyper-vigilant in case he faced a new threat, and looked around, taking in his surroundings as he eased himself into a sitting position, feet on the floor. A pile of books leaned against a dilapidated bookshelf, stacked as neatly as beat-up paperbacks would allow. The titles ranged from flight mechanics to Marcus Aurelius and the Education of Cyrus to an assortment of fantasy and science fiction titles. He smiled, the muscles in his face stiff, and relaxed; only Keith had a bookshelf as varied as that. And then, to prove the point, an old hardback leaned against the side of the bookshelf, the cover stained with coffee and the faded title stenciled over with black pen: _Catch-22_ , his copy, from a year and something ago, that he had loaned to Keith. _I think you’ll like it,_ he had told him; Keith, skeptical, had accepted the book, had promised to take better care of it than Shiro obviously had.

A group of three teens he didn’t know sprawled in what passed for a living room; Shiro could hear someone in the kitchen. It must have been Keith, but he passed the room by and went outside, to reassure himself that he was free, that he was, in fact, on Earth.

The sunrise spread across the desert, staining the sky with brilliant saffron as it chased away the dark violet of night. The red rocks lingered in their deep burgundy, asleep while the cool of night had yet to be replaced by the beating heat of day. He remembered coming out to watch the sunrise when he was still a cadet. It was how he had met Keith, the first time, when the younger cadet had fought with his roommates and spent the night out in the open, sleeping on one of the flat roofs of the compound.

_I don’t feel the walls here,_ Keith had said simply, shrugging when Shiro asked him what had possessed him to spend the night out in the desert, when temperatures plummeted. _And I know how to take care of myself_. He had heard the warning in the other cadet’s voice then, and he had heeded it; one of the few, it would later become apparent. For someone as blunt and sharp as Keith could be, he could be infuriatingly subtle at the same time.

Footsteps crunched the sand behind him, and he turned to see Keith walk towards him.

“It’s good to have you back,” he said, clasping Shiro on the shoulder. Shiro could only nod, smile weakly, tired. Something tried to push its way out of the constraints he had forced on himself, but Keith let go of his shoulder and it settled down, gone for the moment.

“How did you know it was me?” Shiro asked after a moment, trying to sort through everything that had happened, what he could remember and what he couldn’t. Keith eyed the sun and turned towards the old cabin.

“It’s better if I show you,” he said. “And we can get you something to eat while we wait for those three to wake up.” Shiro took one last look at the sunrise and then followed Keith in.

Something besides his memory was missing, and he didn’t know how to get either back.

\---

He hadn’t known, really, how to handle Lance, Hunk, and Pidge together. From what he could tell, Keith didn’t either, which inevitably meant that Keith got into a sniping match with Lance, who was certainly the most gregarious of the three. Shiro had to admit though, it felt good to hear human voices again, to intervene when Lance’s teasing went too far and Keith’s temper threatened to explode. Hunk spent the morning demanding how Keith had managed to survive on flight rations; the shrugged answer of “cheap, easy, and nutritious” was answered with “no way, man, no way!” Shiro couldn’t help but grin at that, remembering suddenly the god-awful meals that Garrison would put out, with only the really terrible deemed inedible by Keith, who seemed to not notice what he was eating half the time. Pidge … Pidge reminded Shiro of someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The kid seemed nice enough though and, from what he said and what Hunk revealed after going through Pidge’s stuff, was an absolute genius when it came to technology.

When Pidge’s research and overheard alien chatter turned out to match with Keith’s search for the carved lions out in the desert, Shiro felt his spirits lift. Surely this would give him a direction, maybe help him recall the year lost to the Galra and oblivion; a purpose, something to do, that’s what he needed.

He missed the pensive look Keith gave him as they all left, lips pressed tight and eyes worried.

Hunk’s … whatever the machine was called led to them into a cave, where the stone lions lay dormant until they passed by, upon which a blue light emanated brightly from the etchings. Something shifted in Shiro’s chest, and he found himself hopeful. He had been right. And when the floor fell out and they landed in front of the energy barrier holding a giant blue lion, he became even more sure that this was the purpose he had been searching for, that he had needed.

And then they were off, and he couldn’t help but think that in the arguments over who was the better pilot, Keith had been far more accurate about Lance’s piloting skills than Lance had.

\---

The first night in the castle, he woke up sweating, his heart racing and breathing ragged. Pacing around his room, he tried to calm down.

_I’m not there anymore_ , he told himself, _I’m free. And I’m fighting them, or I will. I’ll stop them._ He kept repeating it in his mind, trying to turn it into a mantra, reassure himself. But try as he might, ‘them’ never became ‘the Galra’ or ‘Zarkon,’ and he still couldn’t put a name to the dark figure looming over him in his dreams, cruel eyes inspecting him and a sharp smile at whatever they saw.

Keith gave him a sharp look in the morning, but the Princess had them in the control room before Keith could say anything. Shiro was glad for the distraction; it was just a nightmare, he would be fine when the sun dispelled the lingering fog and the last of the shadows.

Nothing to worry about. He just had to keep busy, and he’d be fine.

The peaceful planet that the Green Lion dwelled on gave him time to think, well, as well as he could with Pidge’s nervous babbling. He had tried to intervene, but it hadn’t worked, and so he let Pidge go, recognizing the nerves for what they were.

“What if I can’t fly?” Pidge muttered, “I’m not a pilot!”

“Keith or I will teach you,” Shiro answered absent-mindedly. Pidge kept going, oblivious, and Shiro smiled, shrugging as the alien poling the boat looked down at him.

The calm of the forest planet washed over him, reminding him of the still calm of the desert outside of Garrison. His memories of the past came and went, but he could remember waking early to sit outside and watch the sunrise. He remembered meeting Keith there, first on a regular basis and then, once he had graduated, whenever his assignments permitted.

They had almost been something, before he left for Kerberos. He remembered that now, and the ache that came with that memory sat uneasily in his chest. Shiro knew that Keith was giving him space (if anyone knew about respecting personal space, it was Keith), waiting for him to remember and feel safe enough. It was the reason why they had still been ‘almost something’ when he had left, only the reverse: he had given Keith his space to figure things out. But now… now things had changed, though there were moments when he wanted nothing more than to feel Keith’s hand in his, fingers intertwined, to feel the weight of Keith’s body pressed against his. He just didn’t know how to get there.

“Pidge,” he said after a moment, turning to the problem at hand, and smiling reassuringly. “You’ll be _fine_. Now,” he nodded at the carved lions that lead to a forest path, “go find your Lion.”

Grinning nervously, Pidge nodded and then ran off. Shiro watched him go, then froze as he remembered who Pidge reminded him of. The enthusiasm, the mannerisms, even the nerdiness… Pidge reminded him of Matt Holt. Had they known each other? They must have. Shiro bit his lip, trying to still the nerves that threatened to fire. Pidge was on edge enough; he didn’t need Shiro and his demons to mar finding the Green Lion. Breathing deeply, Shiro got his nerves under control by the time the giant lion erupted from the forest canopy.

Despite the shock, he grinned. The Princess had called the Green Lion the most inquisitive of the five, and it was apparent. The Lion looked all around it as it flew (though how much of that was Pidge, he didn’t know), and it had the feel of a young cat, still curious about everything, quick and always testing the world around it. Pidge and Green were a good match, just as Lance and Blue were.

Which … he snorted as he thought about the Princess’ description of the Red Lion. Take away the ‘metal lion’ bit, and you had Keith. _Wonder who’ll be testing who?_ He thought as he watched Pidge arc towards the clearing in which he stood. His humour dimmed for a moment, thoughts turning towards the Black Lion. The heart of Voltron, the calm head. Garrison had decided to keep him around for that calmness, to be a ‘good influence’ on the cadets. ‘Leadership potential,’ they had also said, not that what that meant was always clear; rumours of assignment to an admiral or something had followed him for a while, but they died away in the weeks before he left for Kerberos. He forced a smile on his face as Green sat down. He’d be the leader that Voltron needed; he could get his head in the game, and that would wrangle his heart into line, however much it might doubt his ability to do so.

“That was amazing!” Pidge exclaimed as he jumped out. “Shiro, Green is the best!”

The sheer exuberance radiating out of the teen outshone his self-doubts, and Shiro laughed.

“Told you you’d be fine,” he teased. Pidge grinned. “Suppose I’d better listen to you next time.”

\---

Keith confronted him the day after the ‘team-building’ exercise, which had not gone well for any of them, but especially so for his reclusive friend. Lance had actually looked chagrined (though only once Keith’s back was turned) when Keith detailed the number of times the other pilot’s lack of attention had led to Keith getting shot in the back and hit by the trainer. No one had any illusions, though, that things would change in the near future.

“Have you been sleeping? At all?” Keith asked bluntly when he caught Shiro wandering the hallways, avoiding his bed and the nightmares that plagued him.

He felt his back tense in response to the sharp question, his face tighten into an expressionless mask. It felt familiar; too familiar.

“I’m _fine_ Keith,” he snapped in response. Keith’s eyes flashed, but Shiro moved past him, trying to ignore the unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t been sleeping well, but he wasn’t going to admit that, to Keith or anyone. Later, when he made it back to his room (hallways thankfully empty), he tossed and turned, angry and frustrated. Angry at Keith, frustrated at his response, knowing that Keith was right, that he wasn’t sleeping and it would not end well, but not knowing how to get away from that. Dark figures still haunted him, figures he couldn’t name, didn’t even know if they were real. And if they weren’t real, what could he say? Would they think him going mad?

The next morning, Keith caught him before he made it to the dining hall (why Coran insisted using it when there was just the seven of them, he didn’t know, but as the man was making food for them all, they went with it).

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, shoulders hunched defensively. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have snapped either,” Shiro smiled, feigning an ease he didn’t feel. “Truth is, all the talk of the Galra did have me up. But I’m sleeping better now, and I really am fine.” Keith gave him a hard look and then nodded, and they joined the others. And Lance promptly told Keith that he could reach the next training level before Keith could, which had Keith turning his full attention to responding. Shiro smiled; leave it to Lance to provide a needed distraction.

The lie sat uneasily with him, but he hadn’t known what else to do. He had lost so much; he didn’t want to add fighting with Keith to the long, still-growing list of ‘what’s gone wrong this year.’

Later in the day, he found Keith sitting alone in a secluded corner of the common room. He almost left, but the ache in his chest pounded hard, demanding that he do something about it. He walked over, and when Keith looked up from his tablet and smiled softly, Shiro felt some of the tension in his gut loosen. Smiling back, he settled on the floor, leaning his back against the couch Keith was stretched out on.

“I don’t …” he sighed. “I don’t think I know how to get back Keith.”

He heard Keith shift, felt the hand that reached down to squeeze his shoulder, that took his when he raised it to clasp Keith’s.

“Just take your time,” Keith said quietly. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Shiro closed his eyes on the memory that lanced through. His last night on Earth before Kerberos … Keith said nothing, just rubbed the side of Shiro’s hand—his metal hand, Shiro processed absently—with his thumb, keeping their fingers interlaced.

They sat there in silence, and Shiro finally felt at peace. It was brief and a stolen moment in a stretch of chaos, but he didn’t care. It was his and Keith’s, and he’d keep it, treasure it. He fell asleep, there on the floor, holding onto Keith in what must have been the most uncomfortable position for them both, but it didn’t matter. They were there, together, and when he woke up later, Keith was still there, smiling softly in the dimming light when Shiro’s eyes caught his.

For that moment, things felt right again.

\---

“What did you say Pidge’s last name was again Lance?” he heard Keith asking pensively, and Shiro looked over. Lance gave Keith a weird look and then shrugged, “Gunderson, or something like that. Why, you pick a fight with his brother or something?”

“Lance,” Shiro warned, interceding before the argument could start. There had been three today already, and they’d yet to make it to the afternoon.

Grinning lopsidedly, Lance chuckled and left, leaving Keith to glare at his back before frowning thoughtfully. Shiro waited for a moment, then went to lean on the kitchen table opposite of Keith. Pidge was upgrading the Green Lion with Hunk’s help; now was the best chance to get Keith to talk about why he was so curious about Pidge’s last name.

“What’s up?” he asked. Keith sighed.

“I dunno… Lance introduced Pidge to me as ‘Pidge Gunderson,’ after we got you away from Garrison’s goons,” Shiro’s lips twitched at the scorn in Keith’s voice for their former home, “But Pidge said that Commander Holt is his father. So why the different last names?” Keith didn’t sound angry at the possible deception, just confused. Shiro frowned; he hadn’t thought about it, but Keith was right.

“I don’t know,” he answered thoughtfully. “But …” he paused, then decided to go ahead and tell Keith. “Pidge reminds me of Matt Holt, the commander’s son.”

“Does the commander have any other family?” Keith asked carefully; he seemed to know how painful that question could be.

Shiro tightened his lips. “You don’t need to answer,” Keith said softly, watching him and drawing a shaky half-smile from Shiro.

“I know,” he sighed and tried to relax. “The commander talked about his wife a lot,” he frowned as something occurred to him. “And both he and Matt went on about the commander’s daughter, Matt’s sister. I can’t remember her name … but they told me that she was the smartest person they knew, smarter than anyone at Garrison.”

“That … would describe Pidge. Except for the being a girl part,” Keith pointed out, and Shiro nodded thoughtfully.

“Before they kicked me out,” Keith continued after a moment, “I heard Iversson and some others talking about a girl who had broken into Records and was demanding information on what had happened to her father. They wanted it hushed before people could connect it to Kerberos. Think that could have been Commander Holt’s daughter?”

“Timing sounds about right,” Shiro shrugged. “Think that she and Pidge are the same person?”

“Girls disguising themselves as boys to rescue their fathers is something out of a fantasy book,” Keith retorted, “But yeah, I think I do. Don’t suppose it matters either way though; Pidge is Pidge.”

Shiro smiled; looked like at least one of the motley bunch on the Altean ship had been accepted by Keith.

“No, I don’t think it does.” He paused, then looked over at Keith. “How exactly _did_ you get yourself expelled? All I’ve heard is Lance’s hints, and Allura said you stole a plane?”

Keith grinned. “Oh yeah. Had five jets chasing me across the desert by the end; none of them could catch me. Iversson just about blew his top.” Shiro laughed; “You have any particular reason for stealing the jet?”

Sobering, Keith looked away, before shrugging and turning back. “I decided I was done being lied to. I just couldn’t do it anymore Shiro, and I thought I’d go out on my terms rather than theirs.”

An awkward silence hung in the air for a moment, and then Shiro reached over and squeezed Keith’s hand.

“Well, I don’t think they’re going to forget you for a long time.” Keith just grinned, his eyes lighting up with a mischief seldom seen. Shiro’s heart skipped a couple beats, and suddenly he had leaned forward, catching Keith’s lips with his, and Keith was kissing him back, the contact soft and urgent at the same time.

The Princess’ voice over the intercom interrupted them, calling everyone to the control room. He smiled at Keith rolling his eyes and muttering something about Murphy’s Law. As Keith came around the table, Shiro caught him around the waist, pulling him close for one last quick kiss.

“Thank you for being here,” he whispered.

“Always,” Keith promised softly, his eyes serious and fierce as they fixed on Shiro’s. One more kiss— the actual last now— and they headed out the door, no longer touching but close all the same.

\---

_You’re a broken soldier_.

Sendak’s words echoed in his head, ringing and mocking as he tried to oust them, to no avail. He was just glad the others were as rattled as he, that the bulk of everyone’s attention seemed to be on comforting the Princess who had just lost her father, effectively, for the second time. Keith had asked him, when they all finally broke up for bed, if he was okay; Shiro had smiled shakily and shrugged, answering with a soft “As well as I can be.” Keith made him promise to come and get him if Shiro needed _anything_ , no matter what time. He had nodded, unable to make the promise verbally but knowing that Keith wouldn’t let him go if he didn’t do something to reassure him.

The darkness of his room provided no comfort, but he didn’t want to be out in the halls. At least the room was his, though to look at it there’d be little to tell who owned the space. Lance had poked him head in once, rolling his eyes and groaning. _You’re as bad as Keith. Regulation corners on the bed, all neat and sterile. D’you grow up in Garrison or something?_ Shiro had thrown a pillow at him to get him to leave, reflecting ruefully that he now knew what caused the thunderous explosion the  other day; Keith hated having his space invaded, especially by someone as talkative as Lance.

He was remembering more of that year away, not that it was a good thing. The dark figure still lingered, unknown and menacing, but now he heard the whisper of an old woman’s voice, cold and emotionless. She scared him, made his skin crawl as he tried to out run her and the memories threatening to push forward.

The arena, though, he remembered that. The roar of the crowd, how they shouted “Champion! Champion!”, how he wanted them to _just shut up_. Once he had entered for that first fight with the Gladiator, blood was always on his hands. They would keep him out only long enough to patch him up, make sure that they weren’t pushing their prize fighter too hard, before sending him back in. Always fighting, always maiming; he killed only when he had to, and each time it cut deeper into his soul. Each time he buried parts of his old life deeper, seeking to protect them from the tainted being he had become. They remained safe … but he started losing himself. Sometimes he wondered if it would be better if he just lost one of the matches, let the challenger do what he had done to so many before him. But something deep inside stopped him every time, protesting that he must fight, must survive.

The Galra had amused themselves by having him stand from time to time in a special cage where they could walk around and inspect this ‘lesser being.’ Zarkon had come once, examining him dispassionately as a shadowed figure stood beside him, hunched and slight beside the large figure of the king. Shiro had stared straight back at the king, refusing to back down and channeling his fury at what had happened to the Holts, to him, and to the other prisoners to stare steadily at the imposing figure of the Galra’s lord. _He may serve our purpose_ , the king had said at last, before turning away.

Shiro hadn’t known what purpose that was, and he still didn’t. He tried to argue that Sendak had been wrong, that Zarkon hadn’t broken him for whatever purpose he had. It wasn’t going so well.

He sat facing the door, where he could see everything in the room, hunched over his knees and resisting the urge to pull at his metal arm, tear it away. It had never felt so foreign, not even when it had been new. He couldn’t remember how or when he got the arm, but he knew that it had felt familiar enough from the beginning. He hated the sight of it right now. Suddenly he was shaking, his whole body, and he couldn’t stop, could only press the heels of his hands—one flesh, one metal—against his eyes to try and stop the tears from leaking out. He sat there, tremors racking his body, for who knows how long, attempting without success to regain some control over his emotions and his body.

He wasn’t broken. He _was not broken_. Zarkon hadn’t broken him, hadn’t turned him.

A ragged sob escaped, and Shiro fought to control himself.

_I’m not broken, I’m not_ , he repeated, over and over, hoping to believe it eventually.

It was a long night.

\---

He found Keith waiting for him in one of the dimly lit side halls that he had taken to roaming at night.

“You remember telling me that you don’t like the idea of me taking unnecessary risks?” he asked once Shiro had settled next to him. Shiro nodded, tired and tense. “Well, I don’t like the fact that you’re slowly killing yourself right now.” Blunt and painful in their honesty, Shiro could only smile weakly. He felt, oddly, happy that Keith was still willing to be open with him, even after all his time away and his lies about sleeping.

“I’m going to try and not yell or snap,” Keith blew out a frustrated sigh, and Shiro could see the strain he was trying to hold in. “But dammit, Shiro, you’ve shut everyone out and won’t say what’s wrong. I know you’re lying about sleeping, I’m not blind, and you’ve never lied to me, and I just … I just don’t know what to do, or say.”

Shiro leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to settle his emotions and keep them from erupting.

“I don’t either, Keith,” he said softly, opening his eyes and fixing them on the stars visible through the window. He couldn’t look at Keith, didn’t want to see the frustration and hopelessness that he just knew would be warring on Keith’s face. It couldn’t end like this.

“I can’t take this much longer Shiro,” Keith admitted after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “It was …” He sighed. “Do you know the difference between ‘dead’ and ‘disappeared’?” Confused by the sharp turn, Shiro looked down and shook his head.

“You can move on from the first.” He winced at the dullness in Keith’s voice. “‘Disappeared’ just kills you with hope. Why do you think Pidge looks like she’s been stabbed whenever Galra prisoners or her father and brother are mentioned?” Keith brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, chin resting on top as he stared at the carpet.

“You came back, and I know we can’t go back to how things were before this damn mess started.” Shiro shifted uneasily, wondering suddenly if that man was even still around. _A broken soldier…_ Keith continued, eyes fixed ahead. “But sometimes I feel like you’re still missing, and I’m still looking up every time I hear someone who sounds like you, turning to surprise strangers who look like you. And then you’ll  say something and for that moment you’re back. And then that moment is gone.”

It was more words at once than he had heard from Keith in a long time, even without factoring in his year as a prisoner. The others wouldn’t believe him, even if would have told them about it. Keith must have been thinking on this for a while.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, not knowing what to say. What a laugh this was, he thought bleakly; Keith with all the words for once, him with none.

“It’s not your fault,” Keith tilted his head and gave his a look that said _so don’t you_ dare _start blaming yourself_. “I’m telling you so you at least know what’s going on on my side of things. I don’t even know if it’ll help, but there it is. And I don’t blame you; I blame Zarkon, Sendak, and all those bastards. But Shiro … I get frustrated when I can’t do anything when I see you pushing yourself too hard and shutting yourself off from everyone. You can fool everyone else, but not _me_.” He frowned and paused, likely trying to set everything back in order. _So stop trying to_ lingered in the air, unspoken.

Shiro could feel that he was on the verge of falling into the same trembling fit he had had the night the Galra crystal took over, and his blood went cold. He couldn’t let Keith see him break down; he _just couldn’t_. Maybe Keith would be okay with it, but he might not; worse, he might pity Shiro, compare who he had once been, before the Galra, to him now, broken.

_I am not broken_ , he repeated to himself. Keith was looking at him oddly.

“Are you ok?” he asked quietly, but with an edge to his tone that warned Shiro not to try getting around the question. Warned him that he had already pushed Keith far enough. His heart clenched and gave its own warning; he couldn’t take another loss.

Shaking his head, Shiro traded one truth for another, feeling the weight of the half-truth as he laughed mirthlessly. “No, I guess not. I just…” he blew out a ragged sigh, fighting to keep his composure and the shakes at bay. “I just hate thinking about what happened on that ship, and I’m starting to remember it and I never would have thought that regaining my memories would be this bad. I had blood on my hands for a year, Keith, and I don’t know if I can ever get it off. And I still don’t know what all happened, what I did. Sometimes I think that’s worse … the not knowing. What else,” his head dropped, “what else did I have to do to survive?”

Keith nodded, body relaxing as Shiro tried to put the words together.

“Can you …” he swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Can you be patient with me? I’m trying to figure this out, and it’s hard.” He had moved, somehow, while he was talking, so that Keith’s arm pressed against his. The contact surprised him, but he kept it, drawing comfort from the warmth and weight of the touch.

Keith smiled sadly, leaning into Shiro’s arm. “Of course. Whatever you need. Just _talk to me_ , ok? Or anyone, really.”

He sighed and nodded, shaking slightly from the overwhelming emotions and the relief of feeling the trembling fit dissolve on itself. Keith shifted his shoulder back, and Shiro took the invitation to lean in closer and rest his head on Keith’s shoulder, tucked under his chin. His arms clasped Keith’s waist loosely; Keith’s arms pressed a little tighter around him.

“You really need to start taking care of yourself,” Keith huffed softly, the air of his words brushing against Shiro’s hair. Shiro smiled despite himself, tightened his arms and tried to just focus on the slow beat of Keith’s heart.

\--

Between the infiltration of the Galra ship, the escape and the Princess’ capture, and the thunderous argument that had happened upon their return to the ship and Coran, Shiro’s nerves were shot. He didn’t know how he had managed to calm the argument, turn Lance’s anger and Hunk’s hurt away from Keith (he had a sinking feeling that Keith was right, but he couldn’t leave the Princess) and towards something that could actually be done.

It was a wonder another one of the trembling fits hadn’t hit him yet. So far he’d managed to keep them under control when the others were around, but several more had struck him since that first night. He knew the name for what he was experiencing— _post-traumatic stress disorder—_ Garrison made sure that all active personnel knew about it and the dangers, understood that they were to seek immediate counselling upon experiencing the symptoms or a potentially traumatic event, but now that he was actually going through it? There were no counsellors here, and he wanted things to be as close as they could to normal with Keith; surely that would be more helpful?

A knock on his door shook him out of his stumbling thoughts, and he opened the door to find Keith standing on the other side, looking as battered as Shiro felt.

Arguments of this sort, where accusations with real, palpable emotion behind them, not the ultimately harmless chipping that went on with Lance, attacked Keith as little else did. Shiro knew it had something to do with one of Keith’s foster-families, who had been fond of emotional abuse just on the ‘right’ side of the line (if there was ever such a thing), but not much beyond that.

“You ok?” he asked, stepping aside to let Keith in. Keith just shrugged silently, taking a seat on the chair near the bed.

“Are you sure about this, Shiro?” Keith asked once he had settled on the edge of his bed, back hunched as he leaned on his knees.

“No,” he decided to admit. Keith deserved to know, especially after being the one voice of reason in the debate earlier. “I’m not. But … we need the Princess to power the ship; she’s the only one who can work the wormholes. We’re sitting ducks, essentially without her.” Keith nodded silently, eyes still skeptical as he accepted the first reason for the attack on Zarkon’s base.

“And I,” he blew out a ragged breath, suddenly wishing he had decided to lie and say ‘yes.’ But he had to finish his reasoning now; it was his pride or Keith’s trust, and he liked to think that he’d give a lot more than just the former to preserve the latter. “It’s going to sound foolish,” he warned, and Keith’s eyes softened. “No it’s not Shiro.”

He smiled bleakly at Keith’s response, eyes unfocused as he stared at his hands and the floor beyond them, “I just can’t lose someone else to Zarkon. Not after the Holts, not after almost not making it back.” _To you_ , he hoped Keith could hear as it lingered unsaid. “He’s taken so much, won over and over, and I,” he licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry as his battered nerves threatened to show themselves, “and I need to try and get something back.”

His hands were locked tightly together, knuckles white from nerves and the attempt to keep the shakes in. Keith’s hands settled over them, and he looked up. Keith’s face was worried and resigned, but understanding.

“Ok,” he said softly. “Then we’ll fight and get her back from him. But please Shiro,” his hands tightened around Shiro’s, “Please, _be careful_.”

Shiro loosened his grip on his hands, moving them so that he could feel Keith’s fingers lock with his. “I will,” he heard himself promise.

\---

The wormhole pulled erratically at them, and Shiro could hear the cries of alarm from three of the Lions. He tried not to think about the silence coming from the Red Lion, the dull sheen of its closed eyes, his stomach caught up in so many knots he’d be surprised if could eat within the next week.

The fight with Hagar had been bad. _You were to be our greatest weapon!_ So had the chilling voice of Zarkon reaching out through the Black Lion ( _your bond is weak…_ ), pulling him out from his seat and throwing him into space. He wasn’t sure which was worse. He could feel the memories from his last year, the worst ones, pushing forward, and he fought desperately to keep them at bay. Panic threatened to take over, the tremors that would rip control of his body from him, and he knew he couldn’t give into it, no matter how torrential the voices of the past became. He needed to maintain his control. The sight of Zarkon aiming for the Red Lion, injured and moving only weakly, lingered; it furrowed his brow and gave him enough focus for the moment. He hadn’t been able to hear Keith, but his mind made up all sorts of sounds and shouts (and silence) for him to dwell on. He should have known better, warned the others that Keith would fight like hell if Shiro was threatened. But there hadn’t been the words to do so.

The wormhole pulled, and he saw first the Green, and then the Blue and Yellow Lions exit at random points. He fought hard to stay with the castle and keep the Red Lion steady on his back, but the force of the disintegrating conduit proved too strong, and he lost control.

Shiro’s world had disintegrated around him when the Galra captured him and the Holts, when they forced him to fight for their amusement in their arenas. He had slowly started gluing it back together. But a tidal wave swept it all away, loosing the tenuous strands holding everything together, when he saw the Red Lion hurtle, flying dead, away from him just before he too exited the wormhole, falling into unknown space, alone.

He had lost everyone, again. He had lost Keith.

_Do you know the difference between ‘dead’ and ‘disappeared’?_


End file.
